


Blue and Cold

by HollowLand



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dissociation, Hypothermia, M/M, Pain, Suicidal Thoughts, alternative route through season 1, catholic cannibalism, considerations of bdsm, slightest of sexual activities, unnecessary academics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-16 22:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8119735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollowLand/pseuds/HollowLand
Summary: Will falls into the ice, and emerges (more) troubled. Hannibal suggests an unorthodox form of therapy.





	1. Chapter 1

And everything was blue and cold.

Will pushed his hands against the ice. The thick layer of ice was supposed to burn his skin, but his body was already getting numb. The sensation in his limbs was fading away. In the freezing water, all sensation was leaving him. He did not resist. Did not try to pound at the sheet of ice, break his way through back to the air. The cosseting of the water lulled him.

Floating like that, thought could stop, his racing mind be put on hold. It was something he had always found difficult to achieve. If it wasn’t his own thoughts, it was the thoughts of others intruding into his mind. The reverberations were endless, the emotional feedback of his friends, his loved ones – the men and women he chased – flowed into each other. It was a mental cacophony which rarely ceased. Even in his dreams, he could not avoid the feverish firing of synapses. He couldn’t put his mind to rest.

But at that moment, for the first time in a long while, he could feel it all leaving. His mind slowed down. Images cropped up, but were quickly pushed aside as his body and brain shut down in the cold. Holding his breath was a shock when he first fell in, but now it felt almost calm, hardly an effort.

Soon, he knew, he would no longer be himself. There was a joy in that. He would not be himself, but he would not be anyone else, either. The dissolution of the soul, becoming an object rather than a person, then not even that, appealed to him in a way he did not expect.

He could no longer hold his breath. Water trickled down his throat. His vocal cords convulsed to stop the flow. He only felt it as a pleasant vibration.

Everything stopped.

\---

He woke up with a shock. There was a tug on his leg. Insistent. He was being pulled out, legs first, then dragged out of the fishing hole and up onto the ice. Reacting of its own accord, his body grasped for the air, inhaling in big, desperate gulps. Only a little sensation returned to his limbs. Yet he could already feel his self, having faded away, begin to return. After the calm he had just experienced, it tore his heart. When he opened his eyes, they were tearing as best they could.

“Fucking hell, Will.” Beverly panted with the effort of pulling his limp body out of the water. She took out her cell phone and dialled hurriedly. She explained where they were, that the paramedics should be ready for a case of hypothermia.

Will weakly raised an arm in her direction. “No…” He mumbled. He could still feel the threads of that calm snapping. If she left him alone, he might still grasp them.

She ignored him. Call made, she took off her leather jacket, wrapping it around him. Beverly couldn’t carry him far, not on the ice. They waited.

\---

When Will regained consciousness again, he was shivering. His skin regained sensation and was tingling. He was still cold, but thick thermal blankets covered him from head to toe. He sighed, accepting the situation. His thoughts flashed. A brief image of blood, spattered across the bed of a child. The arm of a woman, slit from wrist to shoulder in a spiral. He wanted to scream. He managed just a sigh before falling under again.

The next time, he was warm. His arm jerked to the side, and he knew he could move. Only a wisp of cold remained in his limbs. With a groan, he pulled aside the blanket covering his head. A bright light shocked his eyes and he winced. 

“He’s awake. Hello Will.” Alana’s voice. She appeared in his sight, standing next to his bed. She was attempting a smile, but Will could read the worry written all over her face. And more than a hint of pity.

At the other side of the bed, she was joined by Jack. “How are you feeling, Will?”

Will didn’t look either of them in the eye. He stared ahead instead. The actual answer would not allay their concerns. He’d have to answer uncomfortable questions, or avoid them in a way which was as good as answering them. “Tired.” He replied. His voice was still weak. “How’s Beverly?”

“Rattled. But she’s strong.” Jack answered. “She pulled you from the brink of death.”

Of course she did. He could count on any of them to save him, if it came to it. Yet it seemed most appropriate that it would be Beverly. She was practical. She never coddled him, never was anything but direct. Suddenly, he resented her and was angry with himself for doing so.

“I need rest, Jack.” He yawned. Having been deprived of oxygen, his body now craved it all the more. 

“Of course. We’ll come back.”

\---

A week later, the doctors released him. Will had recovered fully. Other than a nip of flesh at the end of a finger, which never returned to life, he was unharmed. The roiling avalanche of thoughts and images in his head returned. He knew they would. Will had long lived with them. It was not difficult to reluctantly accept their return.

Hypothermia had kept him alive. Physically, nothing stood in the way of his returning to work. Both the physicians and Jack, however, insisted that he speak to a psychiatrist. He had nearly died. He had explained he had slipped and fell into the fishing hole, but he knew there was doubt in their minds. Did he jump in? No. But did he want to stay under? Yes, and perhaps they could sense that.

Alana had refused to be his therapist. She was not the right person, she said. Too professionally and personally interested in him, he reckoned. She had suggested a fellow psychiatrist instead, a man who had been her mentor and now operated a private practice in Baltimore. She assured him she had absolute faith in the man. 

\---

At 7 PM, the door to the waiting room opened. A tall, lean man in a sharply cut suit looked at him.

“Mr. Graham?” His voice was serious and oddly accented.

“Doctor Lecter?”

“Yes. Please, come in.”

When Will walked into the office, he was struck by the capaciousness of it. Despite the size, it wasn’t airy. It had a warm feeling, one of polished dark wood and thick carpeting. He was uncomfortable with the notion of being analysed, of meeting this man. The room, however, softened that feeling. It was impeccable. Orderly in a way that appealed to his mind, put it at ease.

“Please, take a seat.” He hadn’t realized that the man had closed the door and stepped closer to him. He offered him a nervous smile of sorts and sat down in one of the armchairs, legs stretching ahead of him as he sank into the low seat.

The doctor took the opposite chair. 

_I can’t read you_ , Will realized with surprise, which only made him look at the man with more consternation. It was unexpected. He had met many psychiatrists before. He could take their point of view. Alana was an open book to him. Chilton an open book he didn’t care to read. Doctor Lecter, however, he could not place. The man’s gaze wasn’t cold but it made him uncomfortable. 

\---

“Dying is not the only thing that can make us forget ourselves, Will.” Lecter said.

Will scoffed ruefully. “I don’t want to die, Hannibal.”

“And yet, you describe your sensation under the ice as though it was blissful.”

“Not blissful. It was… respite. A few brief minutes where my mind was silent.” 

“Nonetheless, a lack of experience to which you were drawn. Your mind ceasing its usual empathy and its remnants.”

“And what else would stop that, Hannibal? Meditation? Alcohol?” He shook his head. “None of that works. Even sleep is no refuge.”

“What do you see when you sleep, Will?”

“What do I see? I see splashes of murder, melting into each other. I feel the personalities of men and women, violent, angry, taking pleasure in the pain of others – or sometimes calm, frighteningly calm. They’re like drops of oil, shifting and colourful, floating on the surface and sometimes blending into each other.”

Hannibal folded one leg over the other. “You’ve been harmed in the course of your work, Will.”

Will looked up at him, unsure about the change in the direction of the conversation. “I’ve been shot in the arm, once.”

Hannibal nodded. “Tell me, Will. At that moment, what did you think?”

“Think? I felt the pain. I jumped for cover. I staunched the flow of blood.”

“So for a moment, there was nothing in your mind but the immediacy of the situation.”

“It…” He hesitated. It was difficult to remember the exact moment. It was only brief, and it had been reshaped in his thoughts for a long time. “Maybe.” 

“That experience might bear a relation to what you experienced under the ice.”

Will spoke slowly. “Are you suggesting that pain could lead to a sense of peace?”

“When you try to describe pain, words run dry. Language is unmade and with it the soul. Pain can move us beyond ourselves.”

Will had never considered that. “It would be… problematic for my health were I to seek being shot.”

“There are ways of encountering pain without such threat.” The very corner of Hannibal’s lips curved. It wasn’t a smile but it at least suggested that one might someday form. “In a safe place, with someone you trust, it can be refined.”

\---

Hannibal’s words weighed on his mind as he returned to work. Other thoughts displaced them for a time but they invariably returned. Hannibal’s voice, the recollection of the voice in his mind, cut through. The evenness of it. The reassurance. Over weeks, he had shown up at Hannibal’s office and home, not always as scheduled. The support the man offered did not come from pity, or mere professional curiosity. There was curiosity there, he could feel it, but it wasn’t the academic and often greedy sort which he often saw in the eyes of psychiatrists. As Hannibal said, they were having ‘conversations’. And those conversations were having some effect, though Will was not sure what it was, exactly.

\---

“Would it merely be a momentary distraction?” Will asked.

“Would that not be enough, Will?”

Will hesitated. “It might.”

Hannibal set his hands down on his knee, fingers entwined. “It could end there. Or it could go on.”

There was a hunger Will could not make familiar in the way Hannibal looked at him.

“Pain can be transformative. On the rack or on the cross, flesh becomes meat.” Hannibal paused, looked at Will carefully. “But that which is unmade can be remade. Through cries of agony and desperate gasps meat can learn how to speak anew. Language returns. Meat becomes flesh once more.”

“Meat gets eaten.” Will replied with a shake of his head.

“Most meat, yes. God, to some, tortured his son when nailed to the wood, only for him to return cleansed. And now he is eaten again and again.” Hannibal chuckled faintly. “Not all who take such a path, or are forced onto it, return. None return whole. Pain takes a bite. They are changed from who they were.”

“And you suggest… what? That you would be my guide?”

“If you decide that is for the best.” Hannibal rose from his chair. “Better to walk with someone who would like to still have you on the other side.”

Their meeting ended soon after. The offer followed Will wherever he went for the next week.

\---

At their next session, meandering through the office for several minutes, he looked to Hannibal who had been calmly standing by his desk. 

“Where do we start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first stab at fanfic in a very long time. It was mostly aimed at seeing whether I would enjoy the process of writing it in relation to my enjoyment of the series. Still, I would of course appreciate comments. I’ve rather enjoyed writing this, so will likely add a few more chapters to see where it goes.
> 
> confusedkayt read this story when I was considering whether to post it at all, and her feedback and encouragement were a great boon. Many thanks.
> 
> ‘language runs dry’ when describing pain is borrowed from Virginia Woolf’s ‘On Being Ill.’
> 
> The notion of ‘unmaking’ is from Elaine Scarry’s ‘The Body in Pain’.
> 
> The ideas about the flesh becoming meat – and then speaking once more – is drawn from Kent L. Brintnall’s ‘Ecce Homo: The Male-Body-In-Pain as Redemptive Figure’.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal continue with an unorthodox course of therapy, as Will loses more and more time.

(Opening note: I’m playing it fast and loose with the dialogue here, while only somewhat keeping to the exact order of events in season 1. If you want, you can think of this happening from the middle towards the end of the season).

\---

His fingers traced a line across the ice above him, the surface coarser than expected. The water buffered his arm, slowing it. Nothing but a faint light penetrated the frozen layer that covered the water. The familiar numbness returned. Will allowed his body to sink into it, pushing away from the ice and sinking deeper into the dark water. He breathed the water in, let it fill his body, chill him from inside as it had already done from the outside. Everything was silent.

For a moment, but no more.

An arm crashed through the ice and a hand grasped him tightly by the neck. It was not the familiar leather jacket of Beverly which he saw. It was a grey hand emerging from a rotting sleeve. Garrett Jacob Hobbs pulled him out of the water, drawing him up so they were face to face. His smirk turned the chill in Will’s bones from a comfort to nausea. 

Reality burst back in, flooding Will’s mind. The thrum of pain ebbed away slowly. A fading echo remained in the flesh of his back. The snowy landscape of his mind faded away to replaced by Hannibal’s familiar office, warm and rich. He stood stripped to his waist. The muscles of his shoulders and back were tense as they recovered, a slight arch to his spine which happened reflexively. Pale red bruises crisscrossing his torso had already begun to fade. He had his palms pressed against Hannibal’s desk. The sturdy wood balanced him.

Will could sense Hannibal’s presence behind him. He was no doubt holding the crop, watching him with interest. Yet rather than Hannibal’s usual detachment, Will could feel an unexpected excitement. He could hear Hannibal inhale at length, drawing his scent in. A soft shiver ran through him as another, softer echo blossomed through his flesh from where Hannibal’s crop had struck his back. Hannibal’s gaze had become visceral to him. He always knew when it was directed at him.

He picked up his undershirt, which he had folded meticulously and placed on Hannibal’s desk next to a flannel shirt. The coat, he had hung up earlier. He turned to face the other man.

“Hannibal, are you enjoying this?” Will asked, surprised by the satisfaction he saw in Hannibal.

“Should I not?” Hannibal replied. The crop remained in his hand. Like everything else owned by the man, it was impeccably made.

“Therapists – conversationalists – aren’t meant to cause each other pain. Certainly not enjoy it.”

“Pain is a part of life, Will. If inflicting it helps someone I consider a friend, why would I not enjoy it?”

Will didn’t answer. He chuckled uncomfortably. It made sense, of an odd kind. So much of what Hannibal said had a convincing quality to it despite its unorthodoxy. However, Will thought the sentiment behind the words spoken didn’t completely match what Hannibal had said. There was more there than Hannibal merely enjoying helping Will. A different kind of pleasure which lied somewhere beneath the surface of Hannibal’s even tone.

More strange yet, Will could feel this pleasure developing within his mind as well. He could not grasp at it clearly. A wisp of Hannibal, of his satisfaction, tugged at his thoughts, only to fade away whenever he tried to focus on it.

\---

The following night, Will woke up with a gasp from a dream he immediately forgot. Whatever had preyed on his subconscious had slipped away. Nothing was amiss. The room was quiet, other than a breeze at the window and the faint snoring of one of the dogs. Knowing they were asleep close by was a comfort. As was the familiar scent of his home, years of dogs, fish, and engine oil embedded in its walls. The clock glowed at the side of the bed. Still early hours of the night. He closed his eyes.

A shrill ringing jerked his eyes open. It felt just a moment later. He saw nothing but a sudden, blinding brightness. Sunlight reflected off a sheet of snow, the cold pure light of winter mornings. He squinted and placed a hand over his eyes, disoriented. He looked around for several seconds until he understood where he was. He had walked out the window, onto the roof. His feet were freezing in the thin layer of snow and had a bluish tint. Looking back, he could see his footprints. The chill of the air hit him suddenly, his conscious mind realizing it was there.

The ringing which jostled him into consciousness had not stopped, grinding on his newly awakened nerves. He rushed back inside, shut the window, and answered the phone while covering himself in blankets, particularly his feet.

It was Jack. Of course. Another case. 

\---

That morning on the roof had been the first fugue Will had experienced, but not the last. They weren’t numerous but they were noticeable. He had settled his head on the pillow, only to wake up walking well away from his house. At the academy, he had stood by the desk in the stark lecture room and spoke of the Chesapeake Ripper when without warning, the insistent ring of Alana Bloom’s cell phone disrupted his thoughts.

Sometimes, he convinced himself he was daydreaming. He knew it wasn’t true.

\---

“Our memory palaces are spacious, Will. Mine just as yours. Expansive edifices can hold much which weighs us down.” They had been meeting for weeks.

“And mine is… overflowing.” Will said.

“When the psyche encounters terrible events, it protects itself.” Hannibal crossed one leg over the other.

“It doesn’t feel protective.” Will chuckled mirthlessly.

“It comes with a price. But without it, you could be much worse.”

“I’ve been losing more and more time. I can’t just accept it.”

“And you shouldn’t. One shield could replace another. I’m here for you, Will. I can ground you.” Hannibal had a softness in his voice that reassured Will. “Breaking down the body can cleanse the halls of the palace, shift aside those memories which otherwise hold us back.”

“Do you ever use pain to clear out your rooms, then?”

“Yes. Among other things.”

The silence between them was heavy. Will was unsure what Hannibal meant by his positive answer. It occurred to him that it could make sense in two ways. One could use the pain one inflicted, rather than suffered. Was Hannibal there only for his benefit, providing grounding and support, or did he also serve some purpose for Hannibal, one that the man had not let him perceive? 

Without any discussion, Will stood up and walked to Hannibal’s desk. The physical part of their meetings had become ritualized. He stripped by the table, carefully folding his clothes as he proceeded. Shirts first, placed one on top of each other. At first, it had only been that. Over time, as the intensity and variety of strikes grew, Will had bared more of himself for Hannibal. Now he also took of his shoes, placing them parallel to the desk. He slipped out of his trousers, folding them too into a precise shape and leaving them by the shirts. The office was always warm. Even standing nearly naked, wearing boxers alone, he didn’t shiver.

“Please.” Will spoke the single word as he always did, setting his hands firmly on the desk.

“Of course.” Hannibal replied as always.

The first strike always came unexpectedly, Hannibal swinging his arm behind Will without giving away the direction or tool. Sometimes it was his bare hand, which left red prints of his palm on Will’s pale skin. 

When it came, Will closed his eyes tight and gritted his teeth. The first one was never the most powerful, but neither did Hannibal hold back, not starting off easy. Each strike grew in intensity. Back. Thighs. Sides. Sometimes Hannibal would slow down, soften the blow, the sudden respite only serving to intensify the renewed surprise when he increased the pain again. 

Throughout, Will bit down on his lip, closed his mouth tight, twisted it. He had not once screamed, yet. As the thrum of pain overtook his whole body, punctuated by sharper, localized blasts, all thoughts broke down. Nothing could occupy his mind or intrude into it. There was only the agony in his flesh, breaking down the noise that kept him awake at night, shattering his very sense of self. There was only the suffering of his flesh.

\---

He found the pain addictive. The effect that it had on his psyche at its most feverish moments was an obvious part of that. He knew that another part of the growing need was physiological. Pain was a mechanism not completely understood by science, but it did cause the release of some chemicals. The sensation could become a physical necessity. Or a bonding experience. 

Growing equally intoxicating, however, was the feedback loop that had begun between the two of them. Hannibal, he knew, felt some complex pleasure. A relish which diverged from the satisfaction one might expect a psychiatrist to derive from his work. Will could still only see fragments of Hannibal’s perspective, fleeting moments. But the vision was getting clearer. Hannibal was enjoying his pain, which meant Will had begun to place himself in the position of both causing and embodying the suffering. This strengthening, double-sided spiral stretched every session to a taut point.

No doubt, soon, something would snap. 

\--- 

A harsh wind buffeting him, Will stood before a grotesque totem pole of carefully arranged corpses. Forensic agents were milling about. They inspected dug-up graves, took photos, searched for evidence. Will paid them no mind. His attention was focused on the totem pole. He took in the elaborate shapes and contorted limbs. The terrified face at the top. The scale of the edifice was overwhelming, more so in the sparse landscape of the shore. 

Jack appeared by his side. He began to say something which Will didn’t quite catch, but then his phone rang and buzzed at his side, and he held up his hand in apology.

Will looked away.

But instead of the totem pole, all he saw was Hannibal’s waiting room.

\---

When Hannibal opened the door, Will walked through immediately, not waiting for an invitation before he crossed the room and started speaking.

“How did I get here, Hannibal?” He said, panicked.

“What do you mean?” Hannibal had closed the door and followed, his calm demeanour at odds with the panic Will exhibited.

Will strained to remember the immediate past, but nothing was there after the shore, standing at Jack’s side. A complete blank. He must have driven. He knew that. He looked at the windows. Dark. He was missing all memory of several hours. He turned to Hannibal, frustrated with the void he found in his mind.

“I was at the shore. A crime scene. Then…” He gestured in the air, trying to convey a concept he couldn’t even explain to himself. “I was here, in your waiting room. Nothing in between.”

He continued trying to trace his steps, walking side to side in Hannibal’s office, initial panic morphing into anger and despair. Hannibal soothed him, listened, coaxed him to talk himself through it with small comments, no more.

Though he calmed down somewhat, Will continued to feel unsettled. The gaping voids in his memory had become too numerous to bear, impossible to push aside. Missing time had chipped at his sense of self. Other memories slipped in to take empty places, memory of other people. Will saw himself in the role of victim and killer, bearing the desire and fear of many others.

“I’m breaking apart, Hannibal. It’s getting hard to know what is real.” He was quieter. Frightened.

“This is real, Will. I’m here. So are you. Ground yourself in the moment. Focus on your body, not your mind.”

He tried. It helped, but not by much. He could feel something from him whenever he failed to concentrate. The physical was there, but tenuous, becoming ephemeral. He was desperate for a stronger grasp on the present. He knew what he needed to shackle his body back to the real while clearing his mind from the horror.

It was clear that the realization in his eyes was visible to Hannibal, as the man nodded at him, agreeing with his decision.

Will walked to the desk. The ritual, even in its beginnings, helped draw the pieces together. It was visceral, a prelude to an overwhelming sensation. Shirts were folded. Shoes set precisely parallel. Trousers folded as well. Palms flat on the desk, back to Hannibal. Exposed to the will of the other man.

“Please.”

Hannibal didn’t respond with standard reply. “Take the rest off, Will. It should be your body, and your body alone.”

A moment of hesitation, but even though he couldn’t completely understand him, Will trusted in Hannibal. And he was anxious to begin. He took off his boxers. Folded them and set them aside, immediately returned his palms to the desk. There was something to Hannibal’s request. Standing bare in the middle of the office, feet feeling the rich carpet, fingers touching wood, every part of him exposed, present, available to the man behind him. I’m here. This is real.

“Please.” He said again, now offering all of himself, allowing Hannibal to take the experiences further.

Hannibal’s voice came from closer than he expected. “Of course.”

There was no pause. He struck Will immediately and powerfully on his rear, a part of him he had avoided until then. Will cried out in surprise, the muscles of his rear and thighs contracting.

This time, Hannibal did not draw him slowly into the sensation. The strikes were quick in succession, vicious and overlapping. Will’s head dropped as strained to withstand the new, ruthless pace. His arms stiffened and fingers curled. Every burst that tore through his nerves and exploded through him cast away more of his broken memories, the doubt. There was only his body, real and aching. He began shaking each time he was hit, his whole body straining and stretching to keep still, to stay grounded in his body, and body alone. 

It was too much to bear. Will shattered, unable to bear it any further. Tears streamed from his eyes. He screamed, wild and uncontrollable, nothing to him but the pain, the immediacy. No words, just sound.

The next strike did not come.

“Enough.” Will mumbled weakly. “Enough.” He barely managed to keep himself up as he wept. The pain had been intolerable. Even as it began to fade he could hardly move, all of him aching and exhausted. 

Will felt the soft fabric of Hannibal’s suit gently touching his back, grazing the bruises, keeping the nerves there on edge. Hannibal stood just behind him, his body against Will’s back. Will shuddered, knowing he could take no more. But instead of hurting him, Hannibal wrapped his arms around him with care, supporting Will’s weight with his frame. Will took his hands off the desk and leaned into him, pushing his bruised skin against him.

Hannibal stroked his stomach with his fingertips. Whispered vague, soothing murmurs into his ear, then just rested his head gently against Will’s curls. Hannibal held him as he recovered, pain fading to a tolerable level. The bruises thrummed still, but the touch of Hannibal’s body was like a balm. They stood there for a long while. Hannibal did not let go. He kept his body snug against Will’s, suit against skin.

Eventually, Will had recovered enough to think again. There was comfort in Hannibal’s arms beyond the immediate. Will knew more of him now, understood a new part of Hannibal. He felt safe.

And he realized that Hannibal’s cock had stiffened. He could feel it pushing lightly against him, through the man’s trousers. Will found that, as though experiencing the same unclear desire as Hannibal, he was hard too. 

“You’re back, Will.” Hannibal said, quiet and serious. “You’re here.”

“I’m here.” Will replied, voice cracking but full of conviction. He wanted Hannibal. And he wanted to hurt him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented on the first chapter and provided such good ideas and much encouragement. As before, confusedkayt had a look at this and gave me excellent advice and support. 
> 
> Once more, I’ve drawn from Elaine Scarry’s ‘The Body in Pain’, particularly her discussion of physical pain as ‘incontestably real’.
> 
> The repeated connection between telephones and dissociative fugues are, funnily enough, inspired by Lady Gaga’s ‘Telephone’. My many thanks to an old friend, T, who told me of their interpretation of this song. Once you start thinking about the song as being about dissociation, the lyrics take on quite a different vibe.
> 
> ‘The noise that kept him awake’ is borrowed from Garbage’s ‘Push It’. The actual lyrics are, appropriately: “This is the noise that keeps me awake, my head explodes and my body aches.”


End file.
